Una melodia che viene da lontano, da altri confini ed altri viandanti. Parole che parlano di sogni e di rimpianti, di compagni di viaggio e di strade percorse, cattive strade le si potrebbe definire, rubando le parole ad un cantautore nostrano, lette sui volti ammicanti dei gitani che danzano e narrate dagli ambulanti che popolano delle loro voci ogni miglio di cammino. Mutevoli come granelli di vita sparsi dal vento di città in città, sospesi tra quelle stesse strade e la rosa di San Joaquin.
TRAMPS AND HAWKERS (Jim Ringer) I choose to see not the things that be or the miles and the years that have gone I pay no heed to tomorrow's need, I'm blinded by the snow and the sun Till all I can see is my darling and me, like young flowers blooming in spring Like flowers we grew and no other I knew but the rose of the San Joaquin
The gypsies dance while stealing a glance at a seed that might blow in the wind And the fields are worked in a sweat-stained shirt, then the workers move on again And the tramps and hawkers with stories wild beguile a young boy's dreams Enticing me to leave my home and the rose of the San Joaquin
I've watched the rise of light in the sky where the sun climbs out of the sea Seen giants fall in mountains tall where the lumbermen cut down the trees I've played in the sand with the Gulf Coast wind, fell asleep in the grass tall and green But nowhere I've been would I go back again except to the San Joaquin
Well, the road back home is hard and it's long and the miles they turn into years And the tramps and hawkers in every town, oh God, but it brings me to tears When I got home I found just a flower on a mound where it shamed the green grasses of spring It grew from the grave of my darling little girl, the rose of the San Joaquin
Oh see us today out on your highway or asleep in the doors of a train See the gypsies dance with their damn knowing glances, hear the peddlers shout out their refrain And who's gonna care, and who's gonna share all the joys and sorrows we've seen? Like ghosts we roam without friends or home, these tramps and hawkers and me Like ghosts we roam without friends or home, these tramps and hawkers and me